


Fear and Loathing at Hurricane Harry's Haberdashery: An Exercise in Gonzo Journalism

by EB_Coleman



Category: Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (1998), Hunter S. Thompson - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Gonzo Journalism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 07:39:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14786258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EB_Coleman/pseuds/EB_Coleman
Summary: The narrator and Doctor Cavallo attend the 'Hot Blues Jam' at Hurricane Harry's bar. (This is a tribute to the great Hunter S. Thompson's style of writing: gonzo journalism.)





	Fear and Loathing at Hurricane Harry's Haberdashery: An Exercise in Gonzo Journalism

We had arrived late at Hurricane Harry’s Haberdashery. After a couple of laps of the block we finally found a parking space for the ‘Japanese death machine’ as my good friend, Doctor, and attorney had described it. As Dr. Cavallo and I strolled towards the Haberdashery’s entrance our nostrils were gladly entertained by the alluring scent of a pizza shop and a foot long sandwich delicatessen. We were just about running on empty. The woeful stomach growls were most probably heard across the street at Big Sally’s Bordello.  
The dinner menus were keenly grasped as we made our way through the ‘Video Poker Lounge’ towards the main bar area, where surprisingly the band were still setting up, in the middle of a raffle draw for a free chicken schnitzel and chips. We found a suitable table almost instantly, as the main bar area was not as busy as expected. Our position: not too far away, but not too close to the stage either. Our distance would have well supported an over-arm throw of a half-full bottle of Pilsner if the performance were bad enough, if we were so inclined.

For on this night, the performances would be sketchy. Advertised as the Hot Blues Jam – anyone can get up and have a go! Eventually it would become a thriving nest of sketchy characters and wannabe Blues performers. It didn’t seem the case when we arrived, but the mouth-harp blowers and the string-pickers would practically arrive and grace the stage in droves. The Doctor kept our table occupied as I made my way to the bar to order our food. A tall man in full motorcycle rider’s apparel stepped up to the bar just after I did. His stern face indicated his day hadn’t been easy, and the thought of a cold beer touching his lips had roamed his mind all day, to the point he was drowning in his own saliva, so I let him order first. After ordering the food I also purchased a frosty glass of brew from the main bar, before sitting up with Dr. Cavallo, who had also showed his impatience for a refreshment by the evidence of a half drained glass of dark malty fizz.

‘Do you think that woman at the next table has the horn for me, or what?’ said the Doctor, as he motioned his head to the left where the lady was sitting with two older men.  
I observed for a few seconds, noticing her eyes were glazed over by the effect of at least four beers.  
‘I don’t think you need to worry. She’s just found a comfortable spot to stare at just above your head on the wall there.’ I said.   
‘Thought she may have been interested.’  
‘She’s about 25 years your senior, buddy.’  
Dr. Cavallo craned his head to the left to take another look. When his face turned back to mine it showed unease and slight disgust.  
‘I’d better put my spectacles on.’ He said.

Our dinners came and we ate it in frenzy, complimented by another round of beers, this time the Mexican sort in a glass bottle. The Doctor was already finished with his sirloin and fries by the time the house band ‘The Hot Shots’ commenced. I was still battling through a thin and soupy red prawn curry (would have been quicker with a straw). The house band leader and the night’s host spoke of how this was a Blues jam. He forcefully emphasized the genre to be played, as it seemed some performers might get up and play something not quite the Blues, but maybe soul or Blues Rock, or their own brand of Blues. We were there to hear nothing but the Blues, and hopefully in it’s most amplified and electric form, so the assertion of the Blues from the host was rather appreciated. 

The house band played first to get things warmed up. Their covers of ‘Leave My Little Girl Alone’, ‘Boom Boom’, and ‘Death Letter’ were decent but not mind-blowing. After which it was an open stage for musicians and what looked like creations by Jim Henson to join in. Up came an extra guitar-slinger, and a harmonica player who was arguably the best performer of the night. We didn’t catch his name when introduced at the microphone, but between the Doctor and I he would be known as ‘Bubba Chubbs’. He just looked like the name we gave him. His dark sunglasses hid his eyes which were probably pointing in opposite directions. His face was almost pig-like and a black, peaked cap covered his head. He selected a Richter-tuned 10-hole blues harp in G from its case and instructed the band what key to play in. They broke into a one chord boogie before Bubba Chubbs fronted the microphone and started singing… just like Howlin’ Wolf. About as good a white man can sing like the Wolf anyway. His mouth-harp abilities were respectable too. Dr. Cavallo couldn’t believe it. His expectations were not the highest coming into Hurricane Harry’s Haberdashery, but now he was satisfied that we came. More amusing though was watching a many drunken middle-aged man mouthing the words to ‘Smokestack Lightning’. The seedy looking chap at the table diagonal to us was sitting alone doing just that (it could be argued he was in good company, and not alone, with his amber beverage in hand).

The band finished up and there was a short interval while the next act - an acoustic duo - were setting up. I saw Bubba Chubbs standing, perched at the bar, looking away from it. My glass was empty so I thought to use this chance to get some insight into Bubba’s performance. The Doctor realized I was heading to the bar.  
‘As your Doctor and attorney; I believe it would be in our best interest to acquire a pitcher of ale.’ He said, slowly nodding in approval of his own great idea.  
I honestly had to concur with the notion and stepped up to the bar next to my soon to be interviewee. 

I ordered the beer jug and turned to Chubbs.  
‘How are ya, pal?’ I asked.  
‘Good.’ He said with a little nod.  
‘I enjoyed your Howlin’ Wolf. What’s your name?’ I offered my hand.  
His mitt was cushioned and slick with sweat. Understandable, as his vocal emulations would take quite some effort.  
‘Quiss. Quiss Maysson.’ Chris, Chris Mason he had said.  
‘Nice to meet you Chris. You’re damn good on that Blues harp. Do you play at many gigs locally, do you have a band?’  
‘Hum. I play moshtly at hum.’ He nodded shallowly and almost perpetually.  
I came to the conclusion that Chris was either speaking in some odd local dialect or he’d had some kind of brain injury. Maybe both. I stood with him for a minute or two, trying to make conversation about harmonica players, but he gave me the impression he wanted me to go away.  
‘Well, enjoy your night Chris.’ I said, moving away with my pitcher. Chris bowed his head little and gave me a thumbs up.  
Eventually, he would move away from his spot at the bar and join two other interesting looking fellows across the room. Dr. Cavallo had seen me talking to Chris. He waited for me to say something as I clunked the jug down on the table and re-found my position on the stool.  
‘Well?’ The suspense was killing him.  
‘His title is actually Chris Mason, or Bubba Mason in the underground music circles. And he’s strange. That about sums up our interaction.’ I said, while pouring myself and the Doctor a new drink.

 

We and the night soldiered on. The talent of the musicians hitting the stage never really improved and the strangeness and oddity of them only increased. A rat-faced man with a white-grey and wispy ponytail played bottle-neck slide on a Dobro. He felt the need to ramble on (under the influence of whiskey it seemed) about the proceeding song. He played five, all sounding the same, as the audience chattered at levels almost drowning out the audible abilities of Old Rat Man.  
We witnessed another harmonica player. This one’s downfall was his eyes.  
‘That man needs some sunglasses.’ said Dr. Cavallo.  
The Doctor’s diagnostic analysis was correct. The man’s eyes were of a beady nature, deep-set into his head. When he hit an instrumental break with that harp he would raise his eyebrows and stare ahead in concentration and profundity. That little Hohner harmonica was giving this man some kind of alien power. You could see it in his skull baubles. Little balls of fire were forming inside his orbits. I could see them slowly growing as the music stomped along. I looked at the Doctor to see his response, but he showed me nothing but the grin of a lunatic. After seeing the slimy scales which had formed along the skin of his arm; I deduced that he must have dropped some “California sunshine” in our pitcher of beer. I almost thanked him because often that was the best way to do it, not knowing it was administered, without the suspense of waiting for the effects of the acid to kick in. At least now I knew Beady-Eyes on stage was not an actual multi-dimensional demon. Maybe just one in disguise.   
He hopped off the stage after collecting up his mouth harps of different keys, organized in a black leather zip-up case. We tried not to make eye contact (or fireball contact) as he walked right past our table. The heat of a stare was coming from somewhere else though; we could feel it from across the room. My recent acquaintance Bubba Chubbs Mason sat with his two buddies. The man to his left was speaking into his ear while Bubba and his companion on his right gave the Doctor and I a penetrating glare. The Doctor hadn’t noticed yet.  
‘I don’t know what he wants, but Bubba Chubbs is shooting laser beams at us.’ I said.  
‘Wha?!’ Dr. Cavallo said, and swivelled his head to the direction I was looking.  
He observed and turned back to me. Confusion flooded his face. We didn’t say anything for a while, trying not to directly stare back at them, still seeing their keen gaze was not shifting. They spoke to each other, probably about us, without breaking force of their laser beams. Half-an-hour passed and our worry increased. I wished the Doctor had not prescribed that acid in the beer. Although, he did that earlier, when we were having a good night.  
An attractive blonde woman named Jenny was on stage with the house band, singing “Stormy Monday”. She could really sing, which was refreshing after the attempts from some of the previous acts. This distraction wasn’t enough for us to forget about the trio across the room, now looking like they wanted our blood. We felt stuck in their tractor beam as if the three of them were getting closer, yet they hadn’t left their seats the whole time.  
‘Do you think we should go?’ I asked the Doctor.  
‘I wanna get one of those Espresso Martinis before we leave.’ He said, as he pointed to the specials board which stated the drink was only seven dollars.  
He came back with his coffee flavored drink and stayed standing at the table, knowing we were about to get up anyway. The drink was drained in two thirsty mouthfuls.  
‘Let’s get the fuck out of here.’ I said.  
The imaginary starting pistol fired and we frantically exited through the closest door out to the street, almost pushing each other out of the way to get out first. Dr. Cavallo looked through the side windows of the bar as we kept moving.  
‘Yep. They’re coming.’ He said.  
‘Do you think they’re gonna jump us?’ I asked.  
‘Maybe. Can’t say I’ve been jumped before. Hassled many times, but never jumped. This will be a new experience.’  
‘Let’s just hope these nice fellows want directions. Maybe they are lost.’  
‘You sound crazy.’  
‘I am. But, I can’t be any crazier than you.’ I said.

We were only ten feet away from the Japanese death machine when Bubba Chubbs yelled out to us, ‘Hey! Where ya’s goin’?’   
I should have restrained from responding, but I didn’t.  
‘Oh, you know, back to the station. Lots of paper work to do, lots of target practice at the range, that sort of thing. The Doc here has a brand new Colt Anaconda he’s been itching to test out.’ I said, as I unlocked the car and we got in.  
‘Why the fuck did you say THAT? They’re not going to think we’re cops. They might want to kill us more now.’ said Dr. Cavallo.   
Sitting in the car, I realized the Doctor had brought the pitcher of beer with him. It was still a quarter full.  
‘Do you want to finish it?’ He asked.  
‘No, you buffoon. I’m driving. Get me that flask of rum from the glove box.’  
‘As your Doctor and attorney I don’t think it wise for you to have that rum and control this automobile. I think I should have it.’  
‘Fine. Gimme the beer then.’ I said, took the jug from him, drank it and handed it back. The Doctor took a long pleasing swig from the flask.  
I turned the key and the Japanese death machine’s six cylinders roared into life. We both checked the mirrors and looked over our shoulders to see where the Bubba Chubbs trio went. The Doctor spotted them across the street.  
‘It seems they have found transportation.’ He said.  
They were getting into a white dual cab Ford pickup.  
‘I can out-run that shit box, easy.’ I said.  
The way from which we came was the opposite direction our motor was pointing. Unfamiliar roads and surroundings laid ahead. There was another pair of headlights coming towards us. I made my decision in an instant and went for it.

The front tires squealed and the back tires spun as I manoeuvred a high speed U-turn, steering wheel fully locked, with the front of our machine almost clipping the side of their pickup as we sailed past and I got the car under control, into a straight line. The pair of headlights which were coming before were now in the middle of the situation. In order to miss the Doctor and I, the driver had to swerve away and brake, veering into the arse-end of the white shit box pickup. The Japanese death machine gripped the road and we picked up speed, leaving the Bubba Chubbs trio in the dust, subsequently with a mangled and un-driveable Ford.  
We didn’t speak for a few minutes on our drive away from the area. We could hear sirens in the distance. Eventually, I spoke first.  
‘Not a bad little turn of events, what do you think?’ I said.  
‘I think: Let’s never visit Hurricane Harry’s Haberdashery ever again.’ said the Doctor, before finishing off the contents of the flask.


End file.
